Colors
by Geeky BMWW Fan
Summary: BMWW. A oneshot. There will most likely be more of them.
1. Sage

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Um, I don't really know how to explain this. I have been going through a phase where I kind of hate the way I write. So that explains the present tense below. It's not permanent. I'll just keep it in this series of stories, which are all related to some color. I think. Maybe they are just random one-shots.

Thanks again, KN, for beta-ing this. In gratitude, I'm giving you a fishing pole and life vest. And a lime green tackle box. Weee! For Hepburn, who lets me send her my unfinished stuff, I give a Hamm sandwich. **:D**

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**Sage**

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No stranger to heights, Bruce's current position, precariously perched high above the floor, does not faze him. He leans forward, causing the ladder to tilt, hand outstretched toward the can of light green paint on the ladder next to him. A slight burn travels up his forearm as he carefully adjusts his weight, enabling him to finally dip his brush in the container.

"What are you doing?"

The sharp tones break his concentration, upset his balance, and he feels the ground rush towards him. Out of reflex, he shuts his eyes, twisting his body, preparing for the jarring impact of flesh against wooden floorboards.

A metallic clang fills the room, declaring that the ladder and can of paint have fallen victim to gravity. His descent, however, is halted by her capable and soft hands. He opens his eyes and sees past her. The sage green stain seeps into the floor and he can do nothing but glare. "You should have got the paint instead."

Diana follows his gaze, looking over her shoulder then back at him. "The floor can be replaced; you can't."

Extricating himself from her arms, he blandly says, "It wasn't even fifteen feet. I've survived worse."

The curve of her brow indicates how little she cares for his reasoning, or perhaps it is the floor she does not like. She is so difficult to please these days.

"Which brings us back to the original question, 'What are you doing?'"

Gesturing with the paintbrush, which he somehow managed to hold on to in spite of his tumble, he says, "Isn't it obvious?"

"Obviously not, or I wouldn't be asking."

"Look, I just wanted—"

"To not consult me. To have things your way. Show me I'm incapable of doing anything."

He waits until the tirade is over, squeezing the life out of the brush's handle all the while. That he had done this as a favor for his rather stressed other half is easily forgotten. Eyes narrowed, he forces out, "I wanted to surprise you."

The admission does wonders for her face. The wrinkle between her brow irons out; the squinted appearance of her eyes is counteracted, and now the blue orbs stare back at him, wide and wet, as her lower lip trembles under some unspoken strain. She turns and walks to the window, cocooned in silence and her arms, shutting him out yet again.

Ignoring the quickly drying paint, Bruce approaches her. Unsure of what to do or what kind of reaction he will receive, he draws side by side with her. The manicured lawns of his estate are spread out before him, darkened by the gray clouds of an afternoon drizzle.

He clears his throat, tries to clear the air and hates that he failed. She takes a step forward, a step away, and he knows the action is designed to draw attention from the small sniffle that just sounded in her nose.

Shaking his head, he draws near again, wrapping his arm around her waist. His hand rubs her stomach before settling under its swell. The rounded protuberance still makes him smile. Her silent sobs, on the other hand, do not.

"The color is called peas in a pod. If you don't like it, I can paint it over with something else."

"It's not the color; it's you."

Those two words bring up all the old questions, all the anxieties and insecurities. Their magic works more effectively than any stick, stone, or broken bone has ever done. The physical weapons and pain could slow, perhaps temporarily stop him. But it is her words that still him, and he thinks if she leaves, if she abandons him, there will be no scars because the wounds will never heal.

An aching rigidity seeps into his bones as he stands there waiting for her to withdraw from his world and tell him everything has been a mistake. The seconds pass, bringing with them even worse terrors and scenarios, but she does not move, and so neither can he.

_Finally_ her head tilts back and finds purchase on his shoulder, and her body sags against him. The weight and its implication—he is wrong—would make his knees buckle if she didn't need him to uphold her. "You've been so perfect, and I'm a wreck."

Still in the throes of relief, he can just barely make the excuse, "Diana, it's the hormones." It is half-hearted, and he knows she can tell. She turns into him, hiding her face in his chest. "I hate being like this. This emotional rollercoaster is humiliating. How can you stay so calm?" He can barely make out the words muffled in his chest, but he hears them and feels them, and they bring an ironic twist to his lips.

"Because you need me to." _Because you need me, too._

"I do." She stares up at him, eyes full of gratitude, and he again feels stupid for thinking she would ever leave him.

"So, this color is really called peas in a pod?"

"I thought it fit." He can't help himself and runs his fingers against her swollen stomach one more time.

"I like it."

"Good, because I think it's permanently stained into the floors."

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A/N: I know it's weird. Please don't hate. **:D**


	2. Smoke

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Kipples, I'm thinking of adding surround sound to the enclave, so you can blast _Ring of Fire _or any other song you see meet and right.

A/N: I just discovered Dancing with the Stars, and I am LOVING IT (and the dancer named Dmitry)! Does anyone else? BTW, thanks for all the encouraging and lovely reviews. I'm in the middle of mid-term craziness, but I will respond to all of them, though I make no promises as to when that will be. **:( **I guess I thought these stories would be weird because of the present tense. For some reason, I think present tense writing can sound almost pretentious, but for some reason I couldn't write the last chapter in anything but that. This one I think could go either way, but I'm using this set of color shots to write in present tense, so I'm sticking to that.**  
**

A/N 2.0: This takes place after the Thanagarian Invasion while Diana and J'onn are taking up space at the Manor.

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**Smoke**

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He rolls his neck as the spray of hot water pounds out the aches and stresses accumulated throughout the day. When the unbearable tension finally slides from his shoulders and disappears down the drain, he turns the nozzle and steps out of the shower.

Condensation thicks the air with cloud, and he blindly reaches until his fingers meet with a towel. The softness acts as a wick, first through his hair and then over his body, and he wraps himself in its warmth before he steps into the cave.

The damp chill acts on the leftover droplets that fleck his skin. There is a shiver he manfully tries to repress, but all attempts cease at the sight before him.

She is descending into his cave, blissfully unaware that he is lurking in the shadows. The thought of turning back enters his mind, but his ever-analytical organ immediately dismisses the notion. Even if she has never seen him in so little, he should not care about his current state of dress. He tells himself _he will not_ care, because he does not care, and _she_ _will not_ change that.

Still, there is safety in hiding, and he finds (almost) nothing more appealing than self-preservation.

His second's hesitation renders the debate moot. She sees him.

"Bru-"

She stops and stares, her foot poised above the second to last step before the floor.

Years of admiring gazes and longing sighs directed at his person have desensitized him. But as she walks towards him, he forgets that he is a jaded, bored, and untouchable man. Heat warms his face and chest, and it grows even more unbearable: he is blushing.

He should laugh at himself. He should laugh at her, but his throat is unable to do anything but swallow.

It goes without saying that she is different from other women. His rapacious mind has already identified, classified, and organized her superiorities, as well as found the appropriate safeguard for each of these temptations. But just when he thinks he has her all figured out, she surprises him. Completely unprepared, he cannot witness her discovery of physical desire with the usual detachment. He is no longer a spectator; he is a participant.

As he understands the danger of his predicament, she works her way closer. Her movements aren't slow and deliberate, nor are they hurried and mindless. She is simply drawn to him, and he blushes even more as he looks at her face. Her eyes are not clouded with lust. It is something that frightens him even more: awe.

Some vestige of reason painfully intrudes, tells him that what is taking place is impossible. _He_ is not an object of adoration. Grasping at this fact, he is finally able to narrow his eyes. His warning goes unheeded; her gaze is fixed on his torso.

She stops, and there is not even a foot separating them. He is just about to clear his throat, but her fingers are on his chest and he is immobilized.

There is only one reference for comparison. In the months since she and J'onn have taken up residence at the Manor, he has engaged in countless sparring sessions with the Amazon.

This is _nothing_ like that.

The warrior's touch is surprisingly tentative, exceedingly gentle, and infinitely more powerful than any punch or kick. Against his will, he remembers that another point of reference does, in fact, exist. And just like that all his back-breaking denials—it was nothing, it was for show, it wasn't even good, she didn't like it, she didn't want him—crumble. There is nothing left but that night in the restaurant, and it scorches in all its vibrant clarity. He can still taste her mouth, can still feel her fingers pull at his hair.

He wets his lips.

Her hands move from his shoulders, down his chest, and over his stomach. They stop at the towel, and he knows she won't go further though her fingers dance along the top of the cotton barrier. He marvels that her restraint is not borne of self-discipline but of satisfaction. She has reached her limit. And the thing that amazes this jaded, bored, and untouchable man is the realization that so has he. This is more than enough for the both of them. For now.

He swallows again, clearing the fog in his throat so the voice he hears is merely gruff, not hungry. "From the way you are staring, Princess, one would think you've never seen a man before."

She does not get his joke, and for a moment she does not even look up from his chest. Her sigh is nearly lost in the cavernous space, but she is so close he can't help but hear it. Finally, she looks at him. There is no twinkle in her eye, no flirtatious smirk, only her trademark earnestness and conviction as she tells him, "No, I suppose I have not."

His comment, intended to lighten the mood, fails. Miserably. The air is heavy and stifling.

"Why are you down here?" he asks, but the inflection is all wrong. He had wanted to convey anger, suspicion.

She answers in a voice as soft as his, "I can't seem to remember."

Her movements are no longer general, but possess a laser-like precision. A barely visible scar that runs from underneath his collarbone to the curve of his pectoral receives special attention. Her finger traces the S-shaped mark, a souvenir from one of his earliest run-ins with Two Face. He is just about to inform her of this but is interrupted.

"You are beautiful."

He almost denies it, but that would be calling her a liar, and she never lies. He does not know how to respond, but soon realizes he is the only one expecting an answer. She has already moved on, her lips now reverently placed on the indentation just below his left collarbone. It is only the beginning. She kisses his body again and again, her perfect lips pressing wherever the scar tissue mars his skin. No place is too ugly or torn, and she humbly pays her respects as he tries not to tremble.

She does not stop, not until there is no place left for her to bless. Not until he believes he is beautiful too.

When she lifts her mouth from the place above his heart, he knows the wait is over. There is freedom to make new memories, ones which he will not bury. Any reason for pretense or subterfuge no longer exists, if it ever really did. He does not try to make excuses or explain this away. He captures her lips with his, and, for the first of what he vows will be many times, he gives her honesty.

It tastes wonderful.

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Anonymous Review Reply...

tweedle **d**- Hola! I'm glad you liked this. You know how I value your opinion. **:D** I think Diana is having a boy and a girl. As my lovely beta pointed out, the paint color (peas in a pod) lends itself to the idea of twins. However, if I had to choose one, she is having a boy. One day she will have a girl in my stories, but not today! I'm glad you liked Bruce's inner workings! Even though Diana didn't see it, I wanted the reader to see that he was just as messed up inside and feeling weak too. I felt bad for making her all hormonal, as that seems kind of cliche, so I needed him wigging out too. And wig out he did. From now on I am calling you Comma Queen. Please keep pointing stuff out like that, and I will keep correcting it! Thanks for reviewing!


	3. Bruise

A/N: I own nothing.

Thanks for the beta, KN! Uhurock! Get it?!?! **:D**

For Hepburn, who likes purple.

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**Bruise**

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The mad rush of battle is nearly at an end, and her heart begins to cool. She pauses for a second, surveying the damage with a smug sense of satisfaction. All around her, the other heroes are wrapping up their jobs-well-done.

She finished first.

He is about twenty feet away, trussing his particular opponent of the Injustice Gang. When he finishes, their eyes meet.

She does not indulge the urge to wink or smile. They are still a secret. Even still, she doesn't take her eyes off him.

She toys with the idea of sauntering over to him, perhaps teasing him for taking so long in dispatching with _his_ bad guy, but something stops her.

It isn't common sense.

As she slams face-first through a brick wall, she curses the existence of fifty-foot red-headed women with meaty fists. Clawing out of the rubble, cheeks stinging with embarrassment and pain, Diana rushes toward the giantess, aiming straight for her stomach.

This time there are no mistakes. As soon as Giganta hits the ground, the golden coils of the lasso ensnare its largest victim. Diana pulls the rope tighter, wishing that the gods had seen fit to create a muzzle of justice, _anything_ to block out the whiny complaints and outraged shrieks of this lumberjack of a criminal.

By the time the authorities take over, he is already gone.

Back in the comfort of the Watchtower, she is ready to nurse her damaged ego and splitting headache. The coolness of the iced mocha container leaves her forehead, and she is about to partake of the equivalent of nectar in Man's World when a familiar breeze rushes by. The low whistle of one Wallace West pierces the forgiving silence. "That's some shiner you got there."

Annoyed and too tired to hide it, Diana does little to rein in the ugly snarl currently disfiguring her mouth. "Excuse me?"

"You have a huge bruise there and there and there and there." He points as he speaks, and she wonders if her entire right side looks like a grape.

Not even responding, she walks away. The sips of chilled coffee aren't quite the balm she had expected. As soon as the door closes behind her, she heads to the mirror.

"Hera."

There are a few splotches of white that break up the monochromatic mess that trails from her forehead down to her upper arm. It looks worse than anything she's experienced before. Nearly half of her face is covered with some of the brightest and most beautiful shades of purple she has ever seen.

Climbing into bed, she angrily sets her alarm, praying the violet disappears within the next three hours.

It doesn't.

She considers canceling but berates herself for feeling self-conscious.

If she looks at her left-hand profile, it isn't too bad. She had chosen the plum-colored dress because Shayera said it brought out her eyes. Inspecting her reflection, she now thinks it makes the bruises stand out even more.

Even if she did wear make-up, she would not allow herself to wear it today. This is her punishment. If she had been paying more attention, been just a bit more careful and thorough, this would not have happened. Besides, even she knows no amount of cover-up will hide the garish marks, certainly not from the man who knows her face as well as his own.

Resigned and a little defiant, Diana teleports to Gotham City.

The oohs and aahs of the paparazzi go off as bright flashes burst and fade in the dark. There is a brief interruption made even more noticeable by the loud gasps of the crowd, but then the incandescence returns with a vengeance, practically blinding her. A bruised and battered Wonder Woman is front page news.

When she walks in, she can sense he is already there, and she finds him standing amongst a pack of men and women. _In_ but not _of _them.

There is much to admire, and she stops to do exactly that. He cuts quite the figure amongst his group, clearly head and shoulders above the rest. Full mouth arranged in a cynical smirk, heavy-lidded eyes to convey boredom, long fingers wrapped around crystal stems. It is the picture of male decadence, and she knows she shouldn't want it, but she does. The underlying truth of who he is makes it acceptable, she tells herself. He is more, and she is more, and she does not feel the smallest tinge of remorse for enjoying how utterly drop-dead gorgeous he is, even when wearing his mask.

But the instant their eyes meet, she wishes the ground would swallow her up.

His eyes, once lazy and indolent, instantly sharpen. The full lips are drawn razor thin. The glass shatters in his fingers, spilling wine over his hand. She watches as the dark liquid drips onto the floor.

"Easy there, boy," one of his companions laughs as Bruce affects the sheepish look that is so at odds with who he really is. She turns away before they can see her, but she can still hear the tinkling laughter of his social circle. "You'll frighten the poor girl away, Bruce."

His voice is smooth as silk and she can just picture the raised eyebrow as he says, "I doubt that. Now if you'll excuse me, I have someone to meet."

She weaves through the crowd, trying to escape the questioning eyes and the angry man at her back. Only when they are crossing the threshold of the balcony does she allow him to catch her.

There are a few couples out there, and she leads him to the edge, far away from the others, keeping the bruised side of her body turned from him.

He won't speak, and she can't stand the silence.

"Say something," she implores.

"Like what?"

She tries again, injecting more levity into her voice. "You mean you aren't going to tease or lecture me for getting big-headed and sloppy."

"At the moment, I have no taste for it." She turns just a fraction of an inch, catches a glimpse of him. His face is so incredibly tight, he looks as if he has been etched out of marble.

"Bruce, don't be like this. It was funny."

"I apologize if the sight of you bruised and beaten doesn't leave me jumping for joy."

His movements are quicksilver, and she is like lead. They are now standing face to face, and she can only hope the moonlight is gracious to her imperfections. She helps as much as she can, hunching her shoulders and presenting him with as much of her undamaged profile as possible. Even though it tickles, she lets her hair drape over her face, not unlike the glamorous starlets of old Hollywood. Or Talia al Ghul.

Part of her is happy that the first thing he does after making her look at him is brush her hair back, securing it behind her ear. There are whispers from the others on the balcony, but they do not hear them.

She hates the wild look in his eyes. Their desperation scares her, because she can't predict if he'll haul her into his arms or push her away forever. He does neither, and she looks at the ground. Again. "At least I match my dress; no need for accessories." The attempt at humor falls flat.

His hand is gentle at her cheek, and she does not fight the reflex to lean into his touch. "Does it hurt?"

"I'm more embarrassed than anything," she mumbles. That she is frightened he can't handle seeing her injured is something she keeps to herself.

His hand is now at the back of her neck, his lips at her forehead. "Be more careful next time."

Her eyes flutter shut as he kisses other parts of her face. "I promise."

She finally releases the breath she has been holding since crawling out of the rubble. He smiles against her shoulder.

"Maybe we need to have J'onn examine your ears. I don't even have super-hearing, and I heard her from a mile away."

"Bruce…" the warning is about as menacing as a dachshund puppy.

"Seriously, Diana, the woman is over fifty fee--"

Out of patience and full of joy, she decides it's time to give him some bruises of his own.

Their kiss is so brilliant they do not even notice the spectators clapping their approval.

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Review or I will sic a dachshund puppy on you. I hear they can lick a person's face off in under ten seconds. Just saying.


	4. Pumpkin

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Thanks, KN! You get some yummy pumpkin pie. **:D**

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**Pumpkin**

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**

The scent entices as soon as he pushes the grandfather clock open. Spice and sweetness fill the air, and his step quickens as he leaves behind the dank recesses of the cave.

Just as he is about to turn the corner, he hears her laughter and immediately freezes.

He should have known the butler had not made the dessert, her personal favorite, for him.

Bruce turns to retreat to his bedroom. He has not even taken two steps when he hears, "Master Bruce?"

Steeling himself, he makes his way into the kitchen, unpleasant smile artfully arranged on his face. He refuses to look at her but knows she is frowning. She is one of the few who knows what he looks like when he is genuinely happy. And tonight he is anything but happy.

"Glad you could join us, Master Bruce. Will you be having some pie?"

"You know how I feel about desserts, Alfred."

The butler gives an apologetic smile to the princess. "If he had his way, every meal would consist of gruel and water."

"It's filling and contains all the essential nutrients," Bruce informs blandly.

"See what I must put up with, Miss Diana? I cook and slave away for a culinary Philistine."

Diana pats the old man's hand, smiling softly, "If it's any consolation, I love your food."

"It is more than enough, my dear. Unfortunately you have not been around enough lately to counteract Master Bruce's poor taste."

He refuses to be made uncomfortable by the statement. It's his home, not hers, and certainly not theirs.

Without even glancing at the clock, Alfred resumes, "Oh, look at the time. I must be retiring for the evening. Goodnight, Miss Diana." Alfred slightly bows to her, then gives him a curt nod, "Master Bruce."

"Goodnight, Alfred…And thanks again for the pie," she adds, but the butler has already left, dimming the lights behind him.

_Bastard. Who goes to bed at six in the evening?_

He leans against the kitchen counter directly across from where she is seated at the table. She does not face him, though her profile is enough for his mind to fill in the other side.

It is impossible to dismiss her femininity under normal circumstances, but she has made it even more difficult. The white folds of dress skim over her like running milk; the dark locks are swept up, revealing the spine and shoulders.

"We decided after you and J'onn moved out there wouldn't be any more of these visits," he says.

Straight. To the point. No room left for argument.

She ignores him, pushing the pie in his direction. "Would you like some?"

"No."

She shrugs, and the movement pushes the loose lock of hair that had been hovering indecisively at her shoulder, sending it over the edge. "Suit yourself." The remaining light causes the knife to shine, drawing his attention away from the errant curl on her back.

Her incisions are precise, and in seconds a large slice of sweetness fills her plate. As he watches her bring the fork to her mouth, he wonders why she does this, why she insists on making things so hard for him. His fists clench and release with every bite she takes, and he would swear he hates her, but for the fact he is madly in love with her.

"This tastes heavenly." She stands, plate in hand, and sidles up next to him. Despite the space between, his senses are full of her: sugar and spice and everything nice.

His fingers twitch.

She chews and swallows. "You should stop saying no."

Sectioning off a bite, she puts the plate down on the counter, then holds the confection up for him to take, her free hand held under the fork so the crumbs will not darken Alfred's spotless floors.

He doesn't move.

"If you don't like it, I promise I'll leave." He knows her looks as well. There is too much sadness and frustration around her eyes for her smile to qualify as genuine.

He is tired of being its cause.

Reckless and slightly angry, he speaks out of turn. "And if I like it?"

"Then I'll stay."

He breaks eye contact with her and stares down the bit of pumpkin pie as if it were the Joker. "It's not worth it."

"How can you know unless you try?"

"You don't know when to quit, do you?"

"You didn't answer my question. And as for me quitting, you don't really want me to."

He lets a mirthless chuckle escape, but it doesn't deter her. Again, she knows him too well.

Unmoved by his glares, she offers him the morsel once more. He doesn't fight her as she guides it into his mouth, even helps her by placing his hand under hers. She lowers the utensil and watches him chew and swallow.

It is the best piece of pie he has ever had.

"Do you want more?"

He shouldn't, but he nods.

"Will you let me give you more?"

He nods as she sets the fork aside.

"Good."

Her thumb is at his lips, brushing away invisible pie crumbs, and when she finally leans in to kiss him, he knows that this time he will not push her away.

* * *

**Pumpkin Revisited**

* * *

He is tired.

Eight hours of patrol finished, and he is just trudging his way up the staircase, each carpeted step a veritable Himalaya.

He pauses outside the bedroom door, resting against the open frame.

He can just make out her form under the sheets, surrounded by the numerous throw pillows that adorn the bed. _Odd._ She doesn't like blankets of any kind, and the cushions normally litter the floor.

He moves in closer to inspect.

She is asleep, black curls spilling around her, framing her perfect face. He smiles at the tiara on her head.

He sits down on the very edge of the bed, carefully distributing his weight so as not to wake her.

He should have known it was pointless.

In the gray light of the rising sun, he can just make out the fluttering of her eyelids. And then she is staring at him with her brilliant blue eyes.

"Daddy?"

There is a second's pause before she bolts upright in bed, her numerous throw pillows tumbling to the floor.

"You should be sleeping, pumpkin nose."

"That's not my name."

"Whatever you say, pumpkin nose." And even though he knows she should be sleeping, he reaches over and starts tickling her.

"Daddy! Stop!" she shrieks in between peals of laughter and thrashes of limbs. "Stop or you'll wake Mommy!"

He pulls his hands away immediately, covering his mouth in shock and horror. "I better stop then."

The girl throws her covers off and stands up on the bed, and he now understands why she bothered with the sheets in the first place.

She looks just like her mother, right down to the red and white boots.

"Mommy let me wear it to sleep, so I could surprise you when you got back from work. Do you like it?"

"Very much. Now I have two Wonder Women in my life."

Without warning she jumps in his arms, twisting until her body is parallel with the floor, arms reaching out in front of her. He spins her around the room, listening to her happy giggles.

It feels like flying.

When they finally stop, she is still laughing. "No, Daddy, I'm Wonder _Girl_."

"I see, and who gave you your uniform? Athena?"

The little girl shakes her head and begins to ask, "Can I w--"

"Aphrodite?"

"Nope! Can I--"

"Hera?"

"Noooo!" she howls, torn between anger and laughter at her father's constant interruptions.

The amused dad scratches his head, pretending at puzzlement.

"I know. Grandma Hippolyta?"

"It was Uncle Dick! Can I wear it to school tomorrow?"

"Sorry Wonder Girl, but that's against school dress code, and we can't have superheroes breaking the rules."

"You're right," she says through a loud yawn. "But can I wear it when I get home?"

"That's an even better idea."

Brushing the pillows and sheets away, he lowers the tiny bundle to the bed. She is asleep in under a minute.

He bends and kisses her nose, closing the door behind him before succumbing to his own yawn. Stumbling more than walking to his bedroom, he smiles tiredly when he finally sees his awaiting wife.

She is wearing her tiara too, sheet pulled up to her neck. "Very cute," he says.

"I take it you saw Lydia?"

"Yes."

"We missed you."

"Halloween." He crawls gratefully into bed, kisses her briefly. "Crazies come out early."

"Rough night?"

"Not exactly, just long."

"Well, if it makes you feel better, I saved you some candy."

"Thanks." He yawns again. "Maybe tomorrow."

"Too bad you're so tired. I had a surprise for you."

"Let me guess. You have your uniform on." He turns his head to the side, opening his eyes just enough to catch the mischievous sparkle in her own.

"Not exactly."

And suddenly he's not so tired.

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Probably not my best effort, and guaranteed to give you a cavity. Thanks for reading.


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